Bobby And The Giant Marshmallow
by clueless in seattle
Summary: Bobby finds himself in a familiar but socially awkward situation...


_**Disclaimer:**__All of the characters are the property of Dick Wolf. I thank him, the writers, the directors and all the great actors who brought them "to life" for our benefit. Any "liberties" I have taken with them is motivated only by my fond admiration (and a few personal quirks I will seek "help" for)._

_**AN:**__ This story is not set within the accepted "canon" for the characters as it is only officially portrayed by the TV series. So I get to "fool around" with them in ways in which they've never been seen, stretch the limits of that and totally suspend the "reality" that is "fiction" to start with…now there's a contradiction in terms!!! _

_(And yeah Goren I know the proper word for that is oxymoron…okay we'll play strip poker later…if you go give the oven a clean first)_

_**With apologies to Roald Dahl**_**…**

**BOBBY AND THE GIANT MARSHMALLOW**

Bobby was getting very frustrated by the marshmallow. Every time he thought he opened his mouth wide enough to get it in, it seemed to get bigger. No matter how hard he tried to compress it to make it fit, its billowing white softness seemed to elude his fingertips. Go on inflating like a balloon until even his hands could not contain it. He loved marshmallows and his mouth was open so wide to try and take a bite, his jaw hurt. Aside from the fact he was close to drowning in his own drool of anticipation.

Then, just as he seemed to get it under control with a soft grunt of satisfaction, he woke up. Not for the first time face down in what he realised was the pillow clasped in his arms. Kind of weird when he thought about it, in those brief moments of regaining consciousness. Though not as weird as when he woke hugging the pillow and having the _"Smack Down Dream"_ as he called it. When he'd be trying to wrestle Hulk Hogan to the canvass and bite his ear. Aware, as he rather spat out the pillowslip, this one didn't smell or taste like his own bed linen.

Bobby felt his heart skip a beat at the realisation he wasn't in his own bed and then felt a rather nasty pounding in the back of his head. Combined with a degree of stomach churning and a feeling of nausea. Not exactly afraid to turn over, but thinking the situation through. Wouldn't be the first time he'd woken in a strange bed, with the distinct symptoms of a hangover and probably not the last.

But it was a situation that could be delicate and require a degree of careful handling. Especially when Bobby could hear the faint sounds of someone else's soft breathing and smell a distinctly feminine scent in the air. For a start, that told him he'd not been out on the lash with Lewis last night. He snored, the smell was more one of engine oil mixed with digestive gases and his sheets were never this clean. But at least he wouldn't be expected to engage in polite, but always awkward conversation. Not only that, he'd known Lewis many years, so had no trouble remembering his name.

Would that he could say the same each time this had happened to him. He'd once used the excuse of fetching the paper in, to check the name on an apartment door. Unfortunately, addressing the young lady as _"Doctor Robinson"_ over coffee and bagels had been something of a give away. A level of formality, given what he could recall of the previous evening, probably was _"unnecessary". _Though he wasn't entirely sure in that case, she remembered his name either. She called him _"Detective",_ after first complimenting him on his ability to _"detect"_ certain things of an anatomical nature.

It was the ones who got very insulted if you could not remember their names you had to worry about. The hangover was bad enough, but having to cope with a case of _"hurt feelings"_ of the feminine variety was a real struggle at times like this. His head still very fuzzy, Bobby winced at the recall of the time he did try to prevent that happening. Writing her name on the palm of his hand with a felt pen he found by the bed, whilst she was in the bathroom, seemed an excellent idea at the time. Most things do after that much to drink and when you are buck naked anticipating the company of a leggy redhead. Come morning when the foot on the end of her long leg is kicking your ass out the door, it's a whole other matter.

Especially when the door then clangs shut three times more, as the rest of your clothes follow you out into the hall. But then she had woken screaming and thinking she had terrible bruises on various parts of her anatomy. Where in the heat of the moment the purple ink had rubbed off his hand and she was equally mad about the couple of places her name was left printed on the sheets. Backwards of course, which was no help to him at all trying to read it and realising the only thing remaining on his right palm, was a red rash. Must have been allergic to something in the pen.

Bobby lay there racking his brain, or would if it showed any side of responding, which it didn't. Last night was a blank and he swallowed in painful and guilty reflex as from somewhere in the fog, a voice said softly _"Bobby? Are you awake?" _

That didn't exactly make him feel any better as it seemed whoever she was, had that unerring ability to remember names women always seemed to. Even in this situation. And knew the twitch in response to a cool hand on his shoulder was a real _"tell". _No chance of feigning unconsciousness a while longer. He began to turn slowly; almost praying his record was in tact. Of never waking next to a really ugly stranger. Unless you counted that British corporal one time in Germany when about two-dozen of them had been thrown in the very small local jail. And he doubted any of them looked like oil paintings that morning.

Slowly was also a way of stopping his head spinning too much, as he squinted and tried to focus on the face near his own. It seemed to be _"zooming"_ in and out rapidly, closer to him and then further away. Couldn't recall it being this bad since that time in Germany, but that was the result of _schnapps_ he was sure he'd never touched again. Bobby swallowed hard a second time as the face came into focus, almost choking and with his stomach bouncing down to his knees and back up. As he recognised the lady. And frankly, knowing very well what her name was, did not make the situation a whole lot better. If anything it just got a hundred times worse.

"H…h…hello Eames" he whispered hoarsely.

"How are you?" she asked kindly.

Somewhere in the feathers filling his head, Bobby had a vague memory it was supposed to be the guy said something dumb ass like that. Then his eyes focussed on an object beside him on the bed. It looked very much like a large carton of chocolate ice cream. From somewhere in the depths of his brain he had a feeling if that was empty, things had moved from bad to very embarrassing. And if it was full, she could forget it. His throat was dry and got even drier as Eames picked up the carton and took the lid off.

But if he screamed it was a silent scream as he was grabbing for his groin and the bedclothes. That's when he realised he was wearing pyjamas that certainly could not be any she lent him and which, he could sort of remember going to buy.

"The nurses said you could have this when you came round" said his partner poking a spoonful of ice cream in his direction. "It's supposed to be okay after you had your tonsils out. But trust you Bobby to wait until your age to have an operation they usually do on kids"

As the chocolate flavour hit Bobby's taste buds nothing ever tasted so good. Unless it was chocolate covered marshmallows of course.

_**AN :**__ I bet I can guess what Eames dreams about..."Bobby Goren And The Very Remote Location Chocolate Factory Has A Big Lock On The Door With Only One Key She Has Swallowed"...and I doubt she's the only one..._


End file.
